


Desperation – 13/30

by imachar



Series: 30 ficlets series [13]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet more angst. But smut too! McCoy has to reveal one final secret about Pike’s injuries to Boyce, however, prior to that he gets to take Captain Kirk to bed for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation – 13/30

**Author's Note:**

> As always, unbeta'd. As always, anything you recognize is not mine....just playing with them...promise to return them mostly undamaged.
> 
>  
> 
> This one takes place contemporaneously with **[All That Matters](http://imachar.livejournal.com/6240.html)** in **[The Weight of a Man](http://imachar.livejournal.com/7467.html)** series. You should probably read that one first, then this will make a lot more sense.

As he prepares to finally go off duty, McCoy casts a last backward glance towards the bio-containment room where Pike is sequestered out of sight of the rest of the wounded in sickbay. He wavers just a fraction, trying to decide if he should go back and check in with Boyce one last time before he leaves; his hesitation catches Chapel’s eye, and she glares at him.

“Out, now! Or I’ll go fetch Boyce and he’ll make it an order.”

“Okay” He waves her off, and then grimaces at the ache in his hand; ten hours of surgery, most of it on Pike, has taken a toll on his body and as reluctant as he is to leave _his_ sickbay in someone else’s hands, even someone as competent as Christine Chapel, he knows he’s no good to anyone right now, and won’t be again until he’s had food, a shower and a long sleep.

Still, there’s one more thing he has to do before he hides himself away in the CMO’s quarters and shuts down everything except the emergency comm signal.

Jim.

He has to find Jim.

A brief conversation with Sulu, who is apparently back on the bridge, and then an even briefer and very strained one with Spock leads McCoy to the bowels of engineering where Jim is helping the Enterprise’s temporary new Chief Engineer – McCoy winces at the thought of the fate that befell the last one – recalibrate the anti-matter containment sensor equipment while the team that had come in on the Leptis Magna begins to prep for the installation of the new warp cores.

Jim looks about as bad as McCoy feels.

Dressed in a fresh shirt – command gold as Pike had confirmed his interim captaincy during the brief command conference that he’d held when he’d first come round from surgery – and with no apparent injuries, it’s still obvious that he’s utterly beat. The way he’s moving, with none of his usual ease and grace, speaks to a bone-deep weariness and probably some deep tissue bruising and muscle-strains that he managed to brush off so he could escape sick-bay all the faster. McCoy shakes his head, muttering “…goddamn idiot...” as he dodges a broken railing and makes his way across the heat-scarred deck.

“Hey…” As he gets close he raises his voice to be heard over the constant rumble of ambient noise and Jim looks up as he goes on, “…you look like shit, Captain. Shift’s over.” He musters up his best scowl as Jim opens his mouth to protest and growls, “No arguments. Scotty you don’t need him anymore, right?”

“Aye, away wi’ you Captain. I can manage.” Scott stretches, rolling his shoulders and rubbing a hand briskly over the back of his neck. “I’ll be off myself as soon as these last two signals line up.”

“You sure?” Jim eases himself off the ladder that climbs the side of the containment pod they’ve been calibrating and McCoy can see the wince as he hits the deck a little too hard.

“Yeah, he’s sure.”

It doesn’t look like Scotty’s planning to argue but the raised-eyebrow, thin-lipped glare that McCoy has perfected over the years is apparently enough to forestall even the thought of it and Scotty waves Jim off.

“Away you go, I’m fine.” He pauses and grins at McCoy. “Just send someone back here wi’ a san’wich and a mug of tea, will you?”

“I can do that.” McCoy, lays a hand unobtrusively on Jim’s back as they turn to leave, his thumb brushing gently against the soft short hair at the nape of his neck, spreading his fingers out to rub over muscles that are corded tight with tension. The skin is warm and smooth, and McCoy suspects that he’s enjoying the feel of it just a little too much. He suspects that Jim is enjoying it too, although the lack of suggestive commentary is a sure sign that he really is exhausted.

“Don’t have anywhere to sleep, you know?” Jim’s barely talking in full sentences as he slumps back against the wall of the turbolift and sways slightly as it begins to move.

“ ‘s okay, kid. You can have the bunk in the CMO’s quarters.” Given that Boyce had just ordered him to go get some sleep in a real bed, it’s not the smartest offer McCoy could have made; but he’s pretty sure there’s at least a couch in the cabin, even though he’s equally sure it’s not long enough for him. Still, Jim needs the rest more than he does, and then Jim tilts his head, a slow smile betraying the fact that he’s not quite as tired as he might at first have appeared and it slowly dawns on McCoy that he’s in way over his head. He _knows_ that smile, even if it’s never been directed at him in quite this way before.

“You gonna share it with me?”

“Jim…not in the mood for your bullshit right now.” The tone is gentler than the words, gentle enough that Jim just tilts his head and affects the slightest pout; and _oh fuck_ if the sight of that gorgeous mouth doesn't send desire – sweet and sharp – skewering down through McCoy’s body.

The temptation to just take what Jim is offering is almost irresistible; he’s wanted this brilliant, infuriating, beautiful young man almost since that first term at the Academy. But if there is one thing those last years with Jocelyn taught Leonard H. McCoy, it’s to guard his heart; bruised and battered by the mutual mistakes and recriminations of his divorce, he spent his three years at the Academy burying himself in work, ignoring every single person who had shown the slightest interest in him. And watching with increasing frustration, and not a little amusement, as Jim merrily fucked his way through half their cohort.

Their cohort.

The realization hits hard and fast that they are gone now, most of them. Young and vibrant and so full of life and promise; all those lives snuffed out in the dark silence of the void, or lost screaming in agony in the blood and fire of shattered starships. For a moment he has to fight a wave of vertigo at the scale of the carnage, and then he looks back at Jim, who’s given up with the pout and has his head tilted back against the bulkhead, his eyes almost closed, just a hint of blue visible under those exquisite long lashes, and in that moment McCoy realizes that there are no guarantees, no second chances. If he wants this, and _oh fuck_ does he want it, he has to take it now, before Jim gives up, convinced that he isn’t interested.

“Fuck it…” He steps close and Jim’s eyes go wide.

“Bones…really?” And the tentative optimism in his voice twists at McCoy just a little; for all his brash confidence there’s vulnerability in Jim that he rarely reveals.

“Yeah, Jim…really.”

McCoy expects Jim to kiss like he does everything else, brash and pushy and balls-to-the-wall aggressive, but as he moves close enough to press up against the frame that’s only a little slighter than his own he’s surprised when Jim just tilts his head and cedes control. Even smelling of burnt plassteel and tasting of coolant and too much bad coffee, Jim is heaven; his body warm and firm, his mouth hot and slick as McCoy engages in a slow, thorough exploration. But it’s the sound Jim makes, like he’s parched and McCoy is a cold spring rain, that is the sweetest thing he can imagine and makes him think that maybe – just maybe – they’re not going to end up blowing the best friendship either of them has ever had for the sake of a quick, stress-relieving fuck at the end of the worst day of their lives.

They separate just long enough to get from the turbolift to the dark privacy of the CMO’s quarters and then they’re all urgent heat and motion again – shedding boots and shirts and uniform pants in a trail from the door to the bedroom – until they’re naked and wrapped around each other, and McCoy’s suddenly very aware that they’ve both been to hell and back in the last twenty four hours, and maybe bathing would be a good precursor to sex.

“Shower, now.”

The curt command distracts Jim’s wandering hands but he doesn’t object to the detour and they crowd into a shower stall that was definitely not designed for two grown men. Standing silent and exhausted, they lean against each other under the scalding spray until Jim starts to revive and McCoy feels the tentative touch of broad hands on his back, fingertips pressing into all the tight, tender places along the muscles either side of his spine.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, that’s good.”

Jim’s only response is an inarticulate hum that sounds like approval and, with his energy restored and apparently with it, his confidence, he slides a hand lower and McCoy groans at the feel of long, strong fingers gripping his ass.

“Oh man, Bones, wanna fuck so bad.” Jim’s whispering into the curve of McCoy’s neck and even as he’s talking he shifts his hips just a fraction to one side and McCoy shivers at the press of a cock – thick and hot and very, very hard – against the skin of his belly. “Wanted this for so fucking long.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” McCoy can’t quite restrain the note of skepticism in his voice, he’s seen so many of Jim’s conquests over the last few years that it’s a little hard to believe _he’s_ the one Jim really wants; his natural cynicism warning that this is happening too fast, his head still playing catch up with his heart – and his cock which is thrumming hard, pressed tight between their bodies. Jim chuffs out a quiet laugh and lifts his head from its resting place on McCoy’s shoulder, those startling blue eyes wide and deceptively candid as he smiles wryly.

“Just trying to get your attention.”

“Yeah? You think you didn’t have my attention the moment I sat down next to you on that shuttle?” McCoy feels his heart stutter in his chest at his own honesty, revealing far more than he intends in that one short sentence, but to his surprise Jim’s smile just widens a little and slides his hand down between them to wrap around both their pricks.

“Well, I guess that means we both got what we wanted now.” And he strokes once, his thumb dancing across the sensitive crown of McCoy’s cock. They both groan at the sweet, sharp tension that fires out along nerves that have been strung too tight with fear and stress and grief for too long, both of them overwhelmed with the relief of survival and the exquisite indulgence of finally giving in to something too long denied.

The sense of desperation has both of them so close to the edge that all it takes is a couple of long firm pulls, Jim’s fingers strong and agile as they squeeze both pricks in a tight, slippery vice and then they’re both coming, shaking against each other as they spend themselves, the come slick and hot and viscous between them.

“Holy good goddamn that was fucking amazing.” It takes a moment for McCoy to regain his breath and his sense, and then he’s panting into Jim’s neck, leaving a gentle, suckling bite against the soft, damp skin.

“No fucking though, next time there’ll be fucking, I promise, Bones. I promise.” Jim’s so tired he’s babbling, and McCoy laughs quietly as he pulls away a little, the water still scalding, still running down over them to wash away the come that’s spattered them, belly and chest. For all the terrible things that have happened in the last twenty four hours, his heart is lighter than it should be; the feel of Jim leaning on him, his breath still coming in uneven, rapid little inhales, indicating that just maybe there will be one good thing to come out of all the death and destruction.

“Sounds good Jim, sounds real good.” He reaches blindly behind him, turning off the water before he hits the air-dryer and turns it up to full heat. “But first bed, before we fall asleep in here.”

****

Waking in the dark of a strange cabin is disorienting enough, but finding himself wrapped around James T. Kirk’s warm, naked body gives McCoy a long moment of silent panic, until his brain snaps into gear and he remembers everything from the night before. Everything; the taste of Jim’s mouth, the firm, slick heat of his cock, the quiet, desperate sounds he’d made when he’d finally come, still pressed up against the wall of the shower, both of them so exhausted they could barely stay upright.

His cock twitches, reacting as much to the memory as to Jim’s proximity, and for just a moment McCoy is torn, the secret hedonist in him desperate to stay in the bunk and forget about the fucked up reality outside the cabin for just a little longer; the pragmatic realist aware that he’s slept too long already and there’s a conversation that he’s been putting off waiting for him in sickbay.

“Need to go check on Pike.”

Jim looks up at him, still drowsy and slightly stupid with sleep “Thought Boyce was here.”

“He is, but I still need to check, and…” He pauses and sighs heavily, the thought of unfinished business nagging at him. “…I need to talk to Boyce.”

“Wha’s up?” He makes a move to sit up and McCoy stalls him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Can’t tell you kid, it’s privileged.” And he presses down a little harder, trying to resist the urge to stroke his thumb over the smooth skin of Jim’s clavicle. “But you’re staying right there. Even if you don’t sleep you’re gonna rest for another hour or two.” They’ve been asleep for six hours and while he’d really like Jim to get a full twelve hours of down time before he goes back to dealing with the constant crises of a disabled ship, a traumatized crew, and a group of stunned, homeless Vulcan VIPs, he’s pretty sure that eight is about all Jim will tolerate.

Jim favours him with an entirely predictable look of mutiny and McCoy runs a hand over his face in frustrated weariness. “Goddammit Jim, just do it for me, please. Give me one less thing to worry about today, yeah?”

He’s not trying to be manipulative, although he knows he’s coming off that way. But he’s still too tired for an argument and after only six hours sleep there’s no way he can get his brain in gear to come up with all the good reasons Jim needs to be rested before he goes back out into the fray. The stand-off lasts only seconds before Jim sighs and McCoy is unimaginably grateful when he feels the tensed muscles beneath his hand go slack as Jim relaxes back onto the bed.

He leans down for a fleeting kiss even as Jim is curling back up under the covers, fighting down the brief pang of regret that he can’t just slide back into the warmth with him. “You want some coffee before I leave?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Jim closes his eyes and rolls over to hug the pillow. “Be better if you were in here with me, but we’ll do this again later, yeah?”

“Oh hell, yeah.” McCoy pauses and leans down to rub his hand gently over Jim’s hair, the disordered mess soft and surprisingly silky under his fingers. “Hell, yeah.”

****

The doors of Medical central slide open to reveal Boyce standing at the bedside of one of the burn patients from engineering. He’s checking vitals, and he looks up as one of the medtechs greets McCoy with a tired “Hey, Chief.”

McCoy pats the young woman on the back and looks over to Boyce, miming a “coffee” gesture with one hand and tipping his head towards the office complex. Boyce nods, holding up three fingers to indicate he’ll be there in a few minutes.

With barely enough time to retrieve the mugs of coffee from the replicator, McCoy has just sat down at his desk in the CMO’s office when Boyce comes through the door and drops wearily into the spare chair.

“You doing okay?” Boyce tilts his head, the blue eyes sharp and inquisitive despite the little sleep he must have had, and McCoy can feel the scrutiny almost like he’s being scanned with a tricorder. “Yeah.” Boyce grins slightly. “I’d say you’re doing just _fine_.”

McCoy rolls his eyes. ”I don’t know how the hell you know _what_ I’ve been doing, but yeah, I’m okay. Need to talk to you, though.”

Boyce sips his coffee and makes a “go on” motion with his free hand and McCoy steels himself to start a conversation that he really doesn’t want to have.

“I haven’t written up Captain Pike’s notes yet, not into the official record. I need to ask you something before I do.”

Boyce just raises an eyebrow, tilting his head and gesturing again with his free hand for McCoy to continue.

McCoy takes a breath and then dissembles a little further, trying to avoid getting to the point. It’s not like him, he’s nothing if not famous for his blunt lack of prevarication, and even before he starts to speak Boyce is frowning, obviously aware that there’s something badly wrong. “There are some injuries that didn’t make it into my notes, I’d like you to decide if you want them in the record.”

Boyce sets his coffee mug on the table with an exaggerated care and leans back in his chair, watching McCoy with wary suspicion.

McCoy knows that what he is suggesting is a serious breach of ethics; Starfleet regulations, as well as civilian physicians’ codes of professional practice, require that all injuries and medical treatments are logged in the treating physician’s notes, and then written up in an official file to be stored in the central medical database.

“Why would you do that, Len?”

“ ‘cause, I’m not sure he’s going to want this in the record.”

Boyce leans forward and tightens his grip on the coffee mug, his knuckles gone white even as he takes a breath, and as his brows tighten down in concern McCoy realizes that what he’s thinking.

“Jesus, no, not that – no…” A tiny, visceral shudder traces down his spine as he goes on. And then, when he realizes just how much worse it could have been, he finds it a little easier to continue. “It’s just there were some really deep rips in his right arm, as if he’d tried to slice into the vein.”

Even though he’s still looking grim Boyce visibly relaxes, settling back into his chair. “He tried to kill himself? This surprises you?”

It takes a lot to render McCoy speechless, but Boyce’s relatively phlegmatic reaction to finding out that Pike had tried to open a vein while he was trapped on the Narada leaves him floundering for a response, and in those few moments of silence he catches the faint undercurrent of desolate pain in Boyce’s face.

“Yeah, it’s the only thing that would account for the pattern of the injury.” McCoy takes a breath, hesitating a fraction before he goes on. “Dammit man, shouldn’t I be surprised? Why the hell are _you_ not surprised?”

Boyce sighs, rubbing his hands wearily over his face, and McCoy is slightly confused at the frustrated irritation in his voice when he finally answers, “Because he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do in that situation, he was doing his fucking _duty_. Devoid of any other options, he was trying to prevent a hostile power from getting access to information that could be used against the Federation.”

He fortifies himself with a mouthful of coffee before he goes on “Do I hate that? Of course I fucking do, but I also understand it. He’s a Starfleet Captain, Len. They’re single-minded bastards, all of them.”

And then McCoy feels himself being scrutinized again and knows that Boyce isn’t finished.

“You know Kirk’s going to be a captain one day, probably sooner than he should be thanks to this clusterfuck. You want a relationship with him, you’re going to need to learn to deal with this shit.” Boyce lays the now empty coffee mug aside and sighs. “You do this, and you serve with him, you’re going to have to make peace with letting him go, or it’s going to eat you up every time he puts his life on the line for the ship, or the crew, or some random planet that needs Starfleet’s protection.” And then he smiles, a tiny, wry twist of his mouth. “But it’ll be worth every moment of hurt and worry, Len. You’ll see things together, you’ll do things together that you can’t imagine in your wildest dreams.”

And McCoy lets out the breath that he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah” Boyce has risen to go fetch some more coffee and he pats McCoy on the back. “Now, back to business, can you draw up a timeline on the injuries, relative to the slug; when it went in, when the toxins started to work?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t take more’n a few minutes.”

“Good, I’m going to go see if Chris is awake. Let me know when you’re done, but if the times line up the way I think they will, you can go ahead and put everything in your report.”

It takes McCoy a little over ten minutes to go back through the initial tricorder scans and reconstruct exactly when Pike would have made the first attempt to saw through the skin of his wrist, and just the thought of it makes McCoy wince in pained sympathy. The jagged tears could only have been made by rubbing the flesh repeatedly against a piece of serrated metal, almost certainly a flaw or cut in the side of the slab that he’d been bound to, and he’d ended up flaying the skin from a ten centimeter stretch of his wrist and forearm, without ever going deep enough to cause any real damage.

He checks the monitor screens periodically while he’s working, keeping an eye on the main sickbay as well as casting an occasional glance at the video feed from Pike’s private bio-containment room. Awake, and clearly still slightly groggy from his most recent dose of painkillers, Pike is frowning as he visibly tries to focus on whatever Boyce is saying. There’s no audio on the monitor, McCoy has turned that feed to silent, the data stream going directly to the medical computer core, but the visual is illuminating enough, particularly when Boyce leans in to rest his forehead on Pike’s shoulder, and for a little while he seems to be the one in need of comfort as Pike lays a hand on top of his head and curls his fingers into the thick silver of his hair, whispering something quietly against Boyce’s head.

Aware that he’s intruding on something that Boyce would probably rather he didn’t see, McCoy looks away and distracts himself with the analysis of the progression of the slug toxin through Pike’s system. When he glances up again, Boyce is sitting up once more, one hand linked tightly with one of Pike’s and he lifts it, pressing his lips to the inside of the wrist that had been so sorely damaged just a few hours before. And then, in a moment that is so achingly heart-wrenching that McCoy has to take a breath to swallow down the lump in his throat, he watches Pike run the flat of his thumb over Boyce’s cheek, obviously wiping away a tear, and wonders at the strength of the bond that makes them willing to put themselves through this very particular hell over and over again. He wonders too if he and Jim will have the strength and the tenacity, or even the chance, to forge that same kind of relationship.

But, before he has time to ponder the future too deeply, the chime that announces the tricorder has integrated the reconstructed timelines for both the wrist wounds and the slug toxin dispersal distracts him. He nods to himself, satisfied at the results, at least he’ll be able to enter the wounds into the record with the note that they were made after the slug went in, but before the toxin had any effect – Pike had tried to kill himself before he gave up any information, not later in some desperate attempt to escape the shame of having laid Earth open to Nero’s insanity.

_fin_


End file.
